


Made in the Dark

by reallooney, Wiseskylight



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28060611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallooney/pseuds/reallooney, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiseskylight/pseuds/Wiseskylight
Summary: It is tradition — sacrificing the second born for the sake of the first; it gives them more power; makes them appeal to the god of Two Faces; helps the darkness grow stronger.So on the night Julian, the second-born son, must do his duty and die in flames, he decides to run. The result — him leaving behind a centuries-old practice, a vindictive family, and a rage-filled god.But the past always returns, especially when his own powers of darkness can no longer be hidden.When a witcher with liquid moon hair is sent to kill him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 125





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a new fic written with reallooney -- a lovely person and great writer. 
> 
> We hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Follow/talk to us on tumblr -- reallooney and wiseskylightfanfics

Quiet nights are the most dangerous. 

A lesson Jaskier learnt as a child of six years. He recalls the way his stubby arms tried to curl around the tiny body he manifested into, the stained blanket that no longer covered his bean-sized toes, the gooseflesh that crawled with ants trailing to his rotten bowl of food. His hunger gnawed at him along with the realisation of uncertainty — of what would happen next. His malnourished figure stilled along with the windless air, the heavy bolted window allowing no breeze to sing its high notes. It’s during these times that Jaskier would hide in one corner of the room, the small square of floor where the light refuses to place its touch. It was as if this spot had caused a great offence against the sun. Similar to the offence Jaskier made against his family. 

_Your birth_ , his father would say, _can only be corrected with your death. Pay the price for it to be forgiven._

Jaskier’s usual reply of muteness did nothing to surprise his father. The man always preferred to hear the sound of his own voice. The way his father’s wheezy tone created a false sense of supremacy against those with weak constitutions. A coward’s grab for power, Jaskier later discovered. So when silence overtook his father’s need to monopolize every conversation, that’s when a real sense of fear settled within every pore like slugs contorting into cracks in a wall. _The fertile silence breeds mischief and mayhem_ , a nameless servant once told him. _Monsters made beneath the skin of men_. The words resulted in Jaskier’s awe at the bravery of the mouse-haired woman, her pudgy nose twitching as strong fumes permeated the room. Not because of the strangeness behind her words, but the chance she took by speaking to him. An act of bravery or fool’s end, he did not know, but a rule was broken all the same. 

None could speak to Jaskier. 

And the woman was never seen again.

Jaskier shifts his current position, leg muscles spasming with each sudden movement. The years of bodily disuse making every physical action foreign. He pays no mind to this sensation. The last few days of walking has already helped him stamp out the initial numbness. Although, the jagged rock floor seems determined to return it back to him. At least the cave has more space despite the commonality with his previous room, the one he calls his prison, as both reject light and have a sense of dampness which seeps into his brittle bones. The cave has one key difference though — safety. In the cage which had been his home for twenty years, he was plagued with heart palpitations too fast for the rest of his organs. A daily occurrence when the sounds of footsteps shuffle close to his room. The thoughts of his father — _Is it him? Could it be him?_ — consuming his whole being. Here in this cave, he feels a lightness to his chest. The ability to breathe easy. He has no doubt that they were after him by now, but the countryside is vast and has dangers everywhere. They might even believe him to be dead. An unlikely belief, but a hopeful one all the same. 

He sits slumped against the wall, making sure that his gaze aligned with the cave’s entrance. He does not wish to be caught by surprise. Not when he just gained his freedom. Even if freedom is cool air stiffening his joints. Discomfort is no stranger to Jaskier; he closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to compartmentalise, pushing the chill to the back of his mind. Sleep is vital. He knows this. If anything, the years spent in that single room showed him one thing. Sleep is for the privileged. The ones fortunate not to have dreams of creeping fire licking skin off bones. But tonight, he has no choice. He must rest his weary head. Tomorrow begins the journey into a new village. The first village Jaskier will see since his escape. He cannot afford to waste the few hours of head start by letting the cold keep him awake.

Closing his eyes, he tries to find a comfortable position against the cave wall. The unforgiving breeze which circles around the cave does nothing to help his shortness of breath. It makes every gulp of air feel as if he is swallowing shards of ice. If he lay on his chest with his cheek pressed against the floor, the sensation of ice shards will claw deeper into his lungs until the rising sun can no longer help rid Jaskier of the cold. He decides to wrap his arms around his chest, his knotted mop of hair acting as a barrier between his head and the wall. It isn’t perfect, but it will do. What he wouldn’t give to have a blanket, or even a second pair of socks to put over his hands. He’d made it through worse nights than this, and there are certainly going to be more sleepless nights to come. This is a reality he’d have to come to terms with. 

His nose begins to flare as he does his best to control his breathing. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. He repeats this several times. It takes a while for his muscles to relax, the tension within them coiling like a spider building its web. He starts at his toes — which have long since gone numb — and works his way up to his shoulders and neck, flexing as much as he can. This is a practice he’d taken up years ago, back when his bed had snapped because of rotting wood. Thus leaving him sleeping on the chilled ground for many months before it was fixed. As he wills his teeth to stop chattering, Jaskier focuses on the remaining warmth that resides somewhere between the barrier of his ribs and the beating of his heart. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. His heart pumps against the warmth as it spreads along his body, but dies as it reaches the tip of his ears or the heel of his feet. Both places too far gone with the night’s icy touch. 

This is Jaskier’s speciality. His own warmth — the only warmth he has ever felt — keeping him alive. 

Visions flash behind the darkness of his lids. The remnant memories of _that_ night bloom at the corners of his sightless eyes. Days have flown by like the hawk he had seen — not heard, not trapped within four walls — drifting through a cloudless sky. A view Jaskier thought he would never watch, and on a birthday he never believed he would live to. Twenty-one. He has made it to the age which others have failed to reach. Jaskier does not feel the guilt he should at this revelation. How can he? He never knew them. The second sons — the boys raised in a room found deep within the manor and the men who died by fire. Jaskier has not fallen to that fate. He will be different. He _has_ been different. 

That night proves it.

He remembers the broken fragments of stone rubbing the soles of his feet as he sprinted down the paved pathway to the forest. Fields upon fields of nothing. Not one living being in the peripheral of his sight. Jaskier had expected his mother — her blonde hair radiating warmth she never cared to give — to peep like she does when sliding him his daily meal in the flap of the door. It always reminded him of the rats. The squeaky brown creatures that push their long noses out of burrows before scurrying off. Now there he was, trying to do the same. The weeds whipping exposed skin as he raced past trees, leaving miniature cuts that sting for the first few seconds before numbing. They are almost gone now. He cannot say the same about the deep purple bruises, flowering underneath the near translucent skin of his hands. The lock had not been easy. But, on that night, it had been almost taken off its hinge. By who, he did not know or care. The lock was the only thing on his mind.

It did not stand the blows of a desperate man. 

And Jaskier was truly desperate. 

He remembers standing on the only chair to reach the window. His head and torso already through the new opening as he balanced himself on tiptoes. The final push he gave as he toppled over the edge, falling face-first into the bushes below. He had done it. He was outside. The smell. The freshness of the world outside his room filled his nostrils. It smelt like something he could never describe. Not because the smell was foreign, but how the limitations of the common tongue could never have the words to express the sensation. His heart knocked within the confines of his chest in the same way the window had creaked every time his fists made contact. The fall had been the easiest part — the ground meeting him with more grace than his father ever had.

He remembers the constant turning of his head. The jumps at every rustled leaf or steps from animals he had only seen in books. The way his blood burned hotter than lukewarm water he would bathe with — if they decided to waste that on him.

Fear became his faithful companion. 

He only wishes rest was the same. It still evades him, teasing him with the blinking of his eyes. But the fire. The flickers of flames within his brother’s hand keep rest away. So he has no choice. He loses himself in the flame. The way it dances on the torch like a worm being cut in half. The colour overtaking the cool blue as it is reflecting in his mother’s eyes. The soft touches as his father holds his hands close to the heat. 

_Fire_ , one of them had said. _Fire will be your end_. 

He slips into unconsciousness with dreams of red, orange and the shades of piercing blue.


	2. Fear Follows

The sun has long since been a distant acquaintance of Jaskier. Often around, but never in reach. He recalls the way the rustic window bolt looked with each rising dawn. The blinding light covering years of dirt and decay as the star reached the highest point in the sky. In his previous room, Jaskier could never lay eyes on the ball of fire. The position of his window made it impossible. Only through the reflection of the lock did the sun make itself known. Jaskier’s eyes would water at the harsh brightness, but even then he could not look away. Not when he thought his life would end without setting sight on something everyone else has seen. All common people have seen the sun.

But Jaskier is not common. 

A reminder he was constantly given. 

The sun embraces him now as its light crept from the entrance of the cave to his current position, but, much to Jaskier’s dismay, it wasn’t warm enough to thaw out his frozen, aching limbs. It is enough to rile him from the depth of his deep slumber though, turning the darkness behind his lids to a fleshy red. His eyelashes act as a poor excuse of a barrier when his vision begins to adjust to the new levels of light. Covering his eyes will not help him as that will prolong the irritation. So he finally opens them and his blurred surroundings come into view. The cave seems no different to how it was before – the jagged rocks, high ceiling and long shadows in front of him. It is–

Jaskier blinks.  _ Shadows?  _

His view focuses with each second that passes, the blurry mass of greys and blacks morphing back into the sharp, rough lines of the cave. There are no shadows before him. Not now. Why would there be? That’s not how light works. The silhouette of his figure should be behind him with his back pressed up against the wall. He considered that the sight may have been his lack of sleep finally catching up to him. His body reaching its breaking point. Days of running have not been good to him. Despite this, he cannot make himself stop. He must get far from  _ them _ and running is his only option. 

Jaskier’s arms crack as bones move back into place. They are no longer wrapped around his chest as he uses a hand to cover the yawn from his mouth. He grimaces as his hot breath wafts into his nose. He hopes to find some water to wash out his mouth. Clean water if he is lucky. Jaskier does not dare to touch the murky water – if it is water – that rests in mud holes. What they have been used for or how long they have been there putting him off them. But does he have to go right away? He’d found sleep with great difficulty, and is now trying to think of any excuse not to leave it. He doesn’t have the energy to rise. The cave is safe – what are the odds someone will look for him here? It will protect him from the elements. He is cold, yes, but how much colder will he be without the protection from the wind that the cave provided? 

_ Excuses are the armour of a craven _ , said Mikolaj Kowalski. A quote his father would use when talking about the revered storyteller and Jaskier. One spoken in good faith. Other with a sharp tongue used to cut out wounds. 

He needs to keep moving, he knows this. Distance is the most important thing, especially when he is still so close to home. All it will take is few days of travel and they will have found him. Jaskier does not think he did a good job covering his tracks. Not on the night he escaped. He imagines how the soles of his shoes made their mark as he ran. The various tall vegetation shoved out of the way. The question is, will they follow? A question he already knows the answer to, but cannot make himself say. Not aloud. Anyhow, the cold air does nothing to help him in his ability to speak, the moisture in his throat drying faster than boiling water on concrete floors. He sighs – regretting it as the exhale turns into a cough – and stands. 

The time has come. He must get back on the trail. A village awaits him. One filled with bustling people and strange new animals… He has already seen a few on his journey here. A deer was one of the creatures he stumbled upon on his first sleepless night in the wilderness. The wondrous thing – eyes rounder than the coins he has stashed in his pocket – moved close, believing Jaskier to be a part of the floor. He did not blame the poor creature for being startled when Jaskier tried to touch it. The thing was a skittish as he was. It's a fond memory and he will forever hold it close.

Jaskier does his best to stretch but the sudden movement causes his muscles to clench up in a flash of pain.  _ Slowly _ , he thinks.  _ Go slow _ . He starts with his legs – a symphony of cracking joints reaching his ears – and works his way up. It takes about ten minutes for his body to allow more tedious actions like walking. 

He takes his first careful steps of the day and approaches the cave entrance. The sun begins to engulf his figure the closer he gets. The light which embraces him brings warmth, yes – although still not enough – but as he walks into the open he’s almost overwhelmed with a feeling of sluggishness and fatigue.  _ Sleep _ , the thought enters his mind as he slows down a little.  _ I should sleep some more. _ The sunlight has never agreed with him, even as a child. Jaskier prefers the cover of darkness, but normal people don't like the dark. His brother would tell him in a mocking voice that Jaskier could never be normal. He was too pale with skin whiter than his bed sheet. Not that it was a large feat. The sheet had not been washed in the past few weeks and they had forgotten again when he escaped. 

He keeps going. 

It is his only option.

The forest seems tranquil enough, but Jaskier isn’t naive to let this lull him into a false sense of security. Not when so much is at stake.

* * *

Villages are stranger than fiction, Jaskier decides. He, for one, thought that the sound of children running amok or merchants selling foreign goods to those strolling by would be heard – considering how close he is to the village border. Based on the little he's been able to glean from books, and the snippets of conversation between family members behind walls, he believes himself to be ready for the bombardment of new sensations. Or so he hopes. 

He feels disappointment bubble in his gut when the view of the village does not align with the image in his mind. As he approaches the border, he expects a guard or a gate – anything designed to keep intruders out – but he finds an open entrance. A muddy trail most likely leading its way through town. Not a single soul around – man or animal.  _ The welcome I deserve _ , he thinks, only half joking. Even so, the eerie silence causes his shoulders to tense as he follows the trail. His shoes slosh around in the wet soil. He is going to need new ones soon. The uncomfortable feeling of water seeping in is becoming more pronounced. Maybe the village has something cheap, but will they help a stranger? A paying customer maybe. Money can go a long way, and the weight of the coins in his pocket becomes heavier. 

The silence continues to bother him as he treks forward. Is this normal for a village? Jaskier does not know. The books he has read cannot be all lies. It's almost too good to be true. Will he run into no trouble here? Could this be the end of his luck? He has faced plenty of tribulations in his escape, but the further he gets from home, the more he expects something to go wrong.

Even though the sentiment of welcome had been mostly a joke, he can’t help but be struck by how with every step he travels down the village’s dirt road, the faster this feeling of welcome fades. 

From what information he’d been able to gather as a child trapped in his house, villages were known to be the lifeblood of human connections. A small society built on laws to protect its people from thievery and murder. A place where  _ he  _ can be protected. He’d spend hours daydreaming about going to a village, thinking up all the different scenarios which might meet him there. But this? This isn't one of them. 

The streets are deserted.  _ An observation a child could make _ , says a scornful voice in the depths of his mind. He ignores it and tries to get a good look at the few people who pass by him. One rather large man has his cloak wrapped around him in a grip that may bend iron. He scurries away before Jaskier comes too close. Another has his gaze locked to the ground the second Jaskier tries to talk to him. The final person – an old woman this time – just glares. The hateful expression distorting her ageing features and makes every wrinkle squished together like thin slices of meat piled in a sandwich. Jaskier avoids her.

Despite the cold reception, Jaskier notices the many small children peeking through windows as he journeys deeper into the village. The houses – such small things compared to his family home – seem to be made for two people, at least. Some even the size of his previous room. But the numerous people staring at him says otherwise. He doesn't let his gaze linger there for long. He doesn't want them to think he is staring. Not when they remind him too much of himself – trapped behind small openings, desperate to see what's outside.

He keeps walking. 

The closer he gets to the town centre, the more he's struck with the feeling of wrongness. Similar to the time when his stomach heaved and turned after a day of starvation made him eat mouldy food. The maid had forgotten – a lie – to feed him. He could not keep anything down for a week. In the same essence, the town is trying to hold in something. He thought he had escaped this feeling when he left his cage, but it travels with him like a babe searching for its mother.

Jaskier subconsciously starts to mirror the townsfolk, quickening his pace and keeping his eyes down. He's back at home, isn't he? There is no village. No sky or breeze. A figment of his imagination to help him cope with his impending death. His dreams of escape have become a nightmare. A– 

Jaskier flinches with incredible force as a young woman rushes in his direction. She can grab him at this distance but doesn't. She holds her head high as she lifts her skirt to make running easier, taking no notice of his presence. Jaskier whips his head around and calls out to her. He needs to know what's happening. Why is everyone hiding in their houses?

The woman's head jerks at the sound of his voice and turns to face him, her blonde hair lashing in all directions. Her eyes catch sight of him before hardening, giving him a harsh look as if he betrayed her somehow. She spins back around, continuing to walk at her aggressive pace. 

"No," Jaskier croaks out, his throat aching from neglect. He takes a few steps after her, half jogging to catch up to her speed. "Wait, please."

Then a distant bell rings and the sound echoes down the streets. 

Jaskier's breathing becomes shallower as he tries to calm himself. That must have been an alarm. His home has one. Oh, the sound. Have they found him? Is he going to be returned home? They are coming. They are –

The woman's hand, like claws, latches onto his arm as she tries to drag him away. He almost fights it in his panic-stricken state but her appearance subdues it. There is no malice there, only fear. She is like him. He allows her to haul him down the street she was heading towards and into a house. The ringing of the bell dies as she pulls him through the door, shutting and locking it behind them. 

“Stay here,” she commands. Then runs through the entire house, pulling shades over any hole or window. Their entire view of the outside is obstructed.

It takes a few minutes for Jaskier to find the right words as his hands begin to shake. "Wh–What's going on?"

The woman answers with a whispered  _ shh! _ "Don't talk so loud."

"Why?" is the only thing Jaskier could say at the current moment as his tongue seems numb. 

Her gaze flickers towards all spots of the house, as if wary that there might be someone else here. Someone with their ears to the wall, hoping to catch the conversation.

“We don’t want to be heard,” she says in a tone that – to her – explains everything.

Jaskier can no longer speak. Not even a whimper exits his mouth with the tightness of his jaw. The woman must have also caught sight of his pale face as she walks right up to him. She places a hand on his vibrating shoulders.  _ She is trying to calm me down _ , he realises when the sounds of hushes reach his ears. 

"The Vipermen," she says. "They're coming and the last we want is their attention."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thank you guys for all the comments last time. We really enjoyed reading them. 
> 
> We hope you also like this one!
> 
> Feel free to give your thoughts on it :)


	3. Safety in Silence

In total, there have been three instances of attempted escapes, excluding Jaskier’s recent, more successful effort. One might call them a prelude to his final getaway, similar to heroic thieves scoping out vast castles before staking their claim over some obscure treasure. Although, he would be lying if he said that held any truth. The first attempt had been done out of plain naïveté, the grand delusion that escaping would be simple. He had memorised the routine of the servants and the hours his parents would appear at the door. The gleam of the sunlight reflecting on the walls saw to that. It was his own personal sundial, as he knew morning had come when the reflection of the window landed above the chair near his bedside. Or how the placement of the reflection aligning with the door meant noon had arrived. The fading light shimmering over stacks of ripped books symbolised the beginning of dusk. This helped Jaskier pinpoint specific times in which he would be seen by servants or family – if they chose to visit him at all.

The servants would usually arrive when the reflection of the window shifted less than halfway to the door but still closer to the chair. His parents – mother or father – could be heard outside his room when the reflection almost kissed the edge of the door. Once again when light placed a soft touch on the stack of books. Three times a day he would be regarded by those outside the barrier of his room. No more and sometimes even less. This meant that there were specific openings of time to plan his escape. When the eyes of watchful servants – the ones reporting back any suspicious actions – were not upon him. Despite all his best efforts, the first attempt still failed in the way he knew should never be repeated. One lesson had stuck with him though.

There is safety in silence. 

A lesson he is trying to follow at this very moment. 

The new threat – the Vipermen, as the woman had called them – creates a new wave of panic which splashes over Jaskier in the same way heavy rain takes no mercy to those exposed to it. He can no longer ignore his shaking hands now there are no cold winds to blame. _Get a hold of yourself_ , he thinks. _These people do not know me_ . _Do not know my parents_. As long as Jaskier stays hidden, he will be fine. Silence is the way to go. 

To his relief, the woman takes his hand again and not in a violent manner. Jaskier does not think he would be able to handle it if she did. It takes a few seconds of walking to realise she is leading him to a group of old feather pillows squashed together. She takes a seat before pulling Jaskier down with her. He has so many questions, but they refuse to part from their resting place at the tip of his tongue. He wonders if she has questions as well. She must. The way she glances at him before turning her gaze towards the door proves it but neither speak. Danger will occur when the spell of stillness is broken. 

Footsteps soon make themselves known. The varying thuds of each step alluding to several people walking and not a singular person. The woman tenses but takes a deep breath as if trying to get herself under control. Voices soon filter in through the thin walls as Jaskier realises a gathering is taking place not far from the woman’s house. The numerous coverings over the glass screens prohibit him from seeing anything, but he can hear them just fine. He is well versed at listening through walls. From the lady’s strained expression, the people outside were not speaking with enough clarity for her to understand. Jaskier closes his eyes in response, focusing on nothing other than trying to figure out what is going on.

“I see everything is prepared,” a man says, his flat voice holding no palpable emotion. An unusual thing to hear from another person. Jaskier's family have never really been good at hiding their disgust for him, the evidence being in the way they speak. But this man shares nothing. There is no malice or striking hostility. Is this man the cause of residents hiding within the safety of their home? That cannot be. Why fear a man who shows no animosity?

Muffled snickers drift through the air. Jaskier does not find humour in the man's statement, but the group of other men giggle as if some untranslatable joke had been told. After a few moments, the passive man speaks up again, “Remind me, how long has it been since you brought us to your town?” 

The laughter dies down as they wait for an answer. By now Jaskier's hands are gripping each other, nails digging into his flesh as he strains to catch the response but none arrives. The man decides to continue, “Because I’d love to be finished here, but this task is getting to be a lot bigger than we originally bargained.” 

The man's tone shifts in a peculiar way; the pitch lowers and softens in a way that could be described as syrupy. Some may take the shift as a sudden will of openness, the type given among close friends and loved ones. To Jaskier, there is a sense of falseness like a wasp hidden behind flower petals. A trap that will spring into action when close. Distrust folds over Jaskier as easily as the paper he used to make cranes as a child. There is nothing good with those who talk sweet. 

The man hums as if deep in thought. “So this is all you have now? Nothing else? There seemed to be _much_ more yesterday. You know, supplies only last so long. It's only fair to be given whatever is needed. We're the ones risking our lives while you guys play house with your remaining family. That is the ones who are alive. Who knows when that may change.” 

And there is the wasp, its stinger digging into its prey. The veiled threat – is it even veiled? – causing the air to boil with rising tension. Jaskier cannot bring himself to move. A fusion of dread and curiosity locking his limbs in place. Just who is this man? Is there something causing the death of others? Most of all, who is he talking to? Jaskier is left with more questions than answers, but he knows to never voice them. Asking questions should be avoided at all costs. A lesson learnt the hard way. 

“Sometimes, I wonder if you actually want a drowner so close to home.” Chuckles bloom in the man's speech, causing four or five other voices to join the twisted hilarity. “After all, you don't seem to show how badly you want this problem gone.”

_Fuck_. A drowner? Jaskier has never seen such a creature, but the horrifying stories of their capabilities are common knowledge. His luck must have finally run out. There is no way for him to continue travelling with such a creature lurking about. He will be stuck here. Maybe even until his parents find him. 

“Well, um,” says a new voice, emerging from the surrounding laughter. One so small that it is almost drowned by the other voices as quickly as it is heard. “The people have already sacrificed so much. I’m not sure how much we have to give–”

The meek speaker is cut off by the monotonous man, his voice returning to its previous dull tenor. He says, “That’s a real shame. I’d hate for any more of your people to die at the hands of these terrible pests.”

A long pause follows the overt warning. Jaskier is half certain the meek speaker has stopped breathing but wobbled gasp escapes him. “I– I think we can do what you’ve asked for. It will be here at the same time.”

“See, I knew we’d be able to come to an agreement,” the cruel man says, Jaskier imagining his lips curling upwards in a malicious grin. “But you know, like I said, this problem’s a lot bigger than we’d thought, so you shouldn’t expect it all to be dealt with by tomorrow. Still, I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.”

The conversation seems to end with a high level of tension concentrating the air, but the small voice cuts through it similar to a needle trying to pierce heavy armour.

“Wait,” says the squeaky man with a little more force. “We can’t keep doing this forever. If this problem is too big for you then maybe we should rethink our original agreement.”

The words tumble from the man’s mouth in a rapid pace, as if he might take it back the second he slows down. Nothing is said when the man finishes, but what follows is a sound all too familiar to Jaskier. He winces, hearing the unmistakable sound of a fist meeting flesh and a body falling to the ground.

* * *

The bells ring again.

For a long time, the sound does nothing to rid Jaskier of the claws which grip his stomach. He imagines the sharp nails of terror burrowing into his soft flesh as it makes itself at home again - the place where it has been for years. Without the sensation, Jaskier believes the feeling will rise along with whatever resides in the empty content of his gut. His throat will burn as a result. This he knows but can never get used to. There are times Jaskier finds himself falling into the acceptance of fear circulating his body along with every pump of blood. That he will spend his lasting days in this perpetual state. Although, the hand is different. 

A hand is moving itself in a strange motion on his back. Round it goes. The surprising warmth it emits penetrates his tattered, thin shirt causing him to shiver at an uncontrollable rate before settling down. This is not the hand of his mother. Or anyone else he knows for that fact. The gesture is too soft, almost kind. Comforting – the word he is looking for is comforting. _I am not home_ , he reminds himself. _I am not there._ He repeats himself. The words engrave themselves onto the seal – filling the cracking gaps – which hold memories he wishes to forget. But it’s never that easy. 

But through the beating of his terror-filled heart, he notes the difference between the first round of ringing and the current. The distinction can be found in the rapidness of metal clanging. This round of bells plays a weary and slow song. It is as if the bellringer is reassuring the residents the danger has passed. Bubbles of laughter almost pop at the base of his throat but he shoves it down. Being hysterical is never a good look in front of strangers. Yes, he has not forgotten about the woman. Her breath which puffs along his cheek as a result of being too close. Her other hand seizing his arm to hold him steady.

“Feeling better?” 

The woman talks in a tone which contradicts the harshness of their earlier meeting. She does not stop the peculiar hand motions on his back either. Jaskier fights the urge to lean into her side, the pillows beneath him making things more difficult. It would be so easy to sag down into its softness and forget the rest of the world. For a moment, Jaskier believes that can happen but soon snaps out of it. The distant rumbling of steps makes themselves known. People are starting to leave their homes.

Jaskier gives the woman a weary smile. “I–I’m fine,” he says, ignoring the obvious look of disbelief upon her face. “Just trying to catch my breath.”

The brunette nods like one would with a frightened animal. “We should make our way outside. The town meeting is going to start.”

There is no offer to let Jaskier stay for a while longer. This does not surprise him. Despite the kindness the woman is showing, suspicion still clouds her eyes and will not disappear any time soon. He has already taken advantage of her generosity by being allowed to hide in her home. It’s best not to do anything more when this moment of security can be revoked just as quickly. Jaskier, with great reluctance, agrees to go outside. His legs quiver like a bow string being plucked but the young lady’s grip on his arm is as sure as stone. He is able to stand with more ease than the last few days. It takes a while but they make it through the door. 

The view Jaskier is greeted with causes him to blink a few times, making sure there is nothing wrong with his vision. The street is bustling with people – children clinging to their mother’s skirts and old men clutching onto makeshift canes – all moving in one direction. The same direction the young woman turns him towards. During their walk, no one glances at Jaskier or notices his presence. They seem too preoccupied with themselves or what may be the day’s earlier events. One child with quite loud sniffles asks his mother if the bad men are gone. She doesn't reply. Instead, she picks her son up and places him on her hip as if to hold him closer. The gesture does nothing to calm the boy. He only buries his face in her neck. 

Like water congregating in a ditch, people flow into the town square to circle a very plump man. His silk purple doublet signifies his status as a noble, contrasting the cheap linen garments those surrounding him wear. There seems to be no jewels hugging his neck or fingers, something his brother would never be without. Mud stains also darken the rich colour of his clothes and almost cover the redness of his pudgy cheeks. Is this the man he heard earlier? The one being hit. Jaskier’s thoughts are broken when the man rings a bell in his right hand causing the whispers to die away. 

They all await his words.

“I have been told,” the noble begins, grimacing every time he takes a small breath, “that the monster will be defeated today.” The second he finishes his words groans can be heard from multiple people and Jaskier can only wonder why the man is lying. “Now, now,” he continues, waving a hand as if to command their silence. “We must not be discouraged. This _issue_ that has been plaguing us will soon be resolved. We can only wait.”

“We have been waiting,” wails a woman somewhere within the crowd, her voice brittle as if broken down by the act of constant sobbing. “We’ve been waiting since the day they started. When will it be over?”

Other people begin to mutter in agreement with the crying woman, but the noble rings the bell once again to quiet them. “The Vipermen,” he says, a strained smile on his face to cover the split second of expressed disgust, “are doing the best with what they have. We must have faith in them.”

“Do you truly believe that?” a wheezing man asks with viciousness, before descending into a cough. He regains soon his speech to say, “Do you truly believe that it will be over today? It’s been weeks. Supplies are running dry. I can barely feed my family and have no way of farming since everything is being given to those bastards! We’ll all die before the drowner gets to us.”

“I’ve barely been able to have a funeral for my child,” a gruff man says close to Jaskier, his expression is stricken with grief. His irises are so dim that they can be mistaken for black, hopelessness zapping all signs of life. His shoulders shudder as he weeps out, “I have not even found her body.”

Some of the townsfolk move close to the grieving man to offer him some comfort. A hand patting his shoulder here or a crushing hug from someone there. Small acts of kindness which could never relieve the pain which consumes his body. A feeling of fire pools within Jaskier, but it’s not one that fills him with warmth. Jaskier averts his gaze as he recognises the emotion. The freezing flush of shame drenches the fire. Jealousy – Jaskier felt resentful of the distraught man in that moment. Not because his daughter had died, but by the compassion of those around him. Something Jaskier is starved of. Can this village care for him like that? He shoves away the train of thought. He is a stranger to them. Nothing more. 

The hushed crowd transforms into a rowdy bunch, their shouts overtaking the noble’s attempt in quelling them. Some people even move close to the noble, resulting in him cowering back. The gathering is starting to spin out of control. The brunette is pushed nearer to Jaskier as a young man, another farmer perhaps, shoves his way to the front. Others follow him. Jaskier holds the young woman as to not lose her.

A shriek engulfs all commotions.

“Konrad,” a blond woman howls, turning the crowd’s attention towards her. On the route she is facing is a middle-aged man, but the amount of blood splattered across his face makes it difficult to tell. He is limping forward, the gash on his leg oozing red liquid and trailing behind him. His arm is wrapped around his stomach, as if to stop the apparent wound from exposing his organs. It is a brutal sight but many rush to the man, all anger for the noble forgotten.

“Amelia,” Konrad chokes out. He falls to his knees, but some villagers grab him before he entirely collapses.

This name seems to have struck a chord within the grieving man as some light flicker into his gaze. He rushes towards Konrad and yells, “Have you seen her? Is she alive? Oh please, tell me she’s alive.”

“Drowner,” the bloody man says, scarlet spit spewing from his mouth. “She has become a drowner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this chapter. A special someone will be making their appearance in the next :D
> 
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